


Year by Year

by neck_mole



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Coming Out, Diary/Journal, Feelings Realization, Growing Up, M/M, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Pining, Slow Burn, Teen Angst, Watford (Simon Snow), Watford Eighth Year, Watford Fifth Year, Watford First Year, Watford Fourth Year, Watford Second Year, Watford Seventh Year, Watford Sixth Year, Watford Third Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 19:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17250008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neck_mole/pseuds/neck_mole
Summary: Dear Diary,Fuck.Sincerely,Basilton Pitch-A look into Tyrannus Basilton (Baz) Grimm-Pitch's personal diary over the years he's at Watford.





	Year by Year

**Author's Note:**

> just for reference: i know i made the chimera attack a couple years too early. also, the formatting took some personal debating, but! it's somethin!
> 
> in all honesty, i wrote this a while ago, then abandoned it halfway through, then picked it back up this past weekend. i'd figured, why not have one last fic for 2018?
> 
> so here we go, my last fic for 2018! it's been a wild ride, and i'm excited for what 2019 will bring!

**First Year**

 

Dear Diary,

It was my first day at Watford and it was weird. Dad always told me it would be mine because it was mum's, but I don’t feel like it’s mine at all. The Mage is weird, my bed is lumpy, and it’s an awful climb upstairs to my room. I feel like I’m supposed to fit in, but I don’t. The teachers look at me like I’m some sad little rag doll and go off about mum and how amazing she was.

I know she was amazing. I know how much dad talks about her that she was really amazing.

I kind of see her in my dreams. She tucks my hair behind my ear and sings something. I hum it sometimes when I’m scared.

I was humming it this morning.

The Crucible experience was… weird. And my roommate is weird.

I knew it was going to be him before even showing up.  _ The Chosen One _ . Aunt Fiona talked about him sometimes, especially this morning she was warning me.  _ “Don’t talk to him, Basil. He’s got it off with the Mage now, yeah? He’s his little puppet, and he’ll play you too if he gets hold of you right. He’s not right in the head; he’s not supposed to be there. He’s some Normal that got really, really lucky. It’s not right.” _ I’m surprised she didn’t curse. She usually does when dad isn’t around to look at her like he looks at me when I steal caramel sweets from the pantry jars. But she doesn’t. She kept talking then just dropped me off, giving me a hug. She smelt like cigarettes and polished leather. And like fresh tears. She didn’t cry a lot, but she seemed like it hurt her to be there.

I wonder if it was because of mum. It probably was.

But then I met him. He didn’t look like some wonderful savior of the Mages. Simon Snow. He looked like he never learned to comb his hair and that he’s had that shirt on since he got it a year back. He’s all freckly and practically glowing.

If he’s supposed to be the Chosen One, whoever chose him should’ve picked somebody else. He can’t even contain his magick; it’s sparking out of him in heartbeat waves. Maybe that’s why he’s so golden; it’s his magick on his skin making him a literal light bulb of magick.

And that light bulb wanted to shake my hand.

And I didn’t want to get shocked.

It was weird. He just looked at me smiling, and I had to, because apparently he’s my roommate. For eight years. Until the end, until I’m out of Watford.

I’m not supposed to like him, and I don’t think I will, but he seems too nice to me to be able to hate right now. He smiles too much; he’s missing teeth still. Growing the last ones in. He can’t even get out a regular spell. It’s weird to see that he has so much magick, but he can’t use it. I don’t like it.

I don’t have much more for tonight, diary. Snow is in the shower and I don’t want him to see what I’m writing. I don’t think we should be friendly. Dad wouldn’t like that. Fiona would hate it more.

Night night,

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Snow is sort of stupid. It feels weird, but he isn’t very smart.

He’s in all my classes and he struggles an awful lot. He has some friend already, Penelope Bunce. She’s smart, like me, but she helps him so much that I feel like if she wasn’t here, he would somehow be the first person forced out of Watford for not knowing anything about being a Mage.

He might be the  _ Chosen One _ , but he shouldn’t have been chosen for this. Maybe he should have been chosen for moping bathrooms.

Except maybe not. He leaves the bathroom floors wet after taking showers and doesn’t even try to fix it. He just leaves it.

So maybe he’s stupid and can’t look after himself. I can’t believe I have to room with the worthless  _ Chosen One _ for eight years.

But maybe I don’t mind Watford as much as I thought I would. Besides the idiot roommate and annoying students, it feels like it should be home. My bed isn’t quite as big, and I can put what I want on the walls. I can eat what I want for breakfast, so long as it’s there.

It’s comfortable.

As per usual, goodnight,

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

It’s Christmas break and it’s awfully lonely. It’s typically lonely over the Holidays. Aunt Fiona comes by most years. Just drops in, drinks a lot of special eggnog really late, sings  _ too _ many carols, then passes out on the couch.

This year, everyone's cooing over Mordelia. She’s an “angel”, apparently. She’s just some baby. She doesn’t even look like my dad, but maybe that’s because my dad looks like a vampire.

We don’t talk about how I look like one too, but maybe we should. I’m the only one who’s supposed to look like a vampire because I am one.

We don’t talk about that at all.

_ Especially _ at Christmas dinner.

We act all like a happy family, like nothing wrong. Like Daphne is actually my mum, and like Aunt Fiona isn’t crying in the bathroom. 

I think I’ve decided, officially, that I hate the holidays.

I’d much rather be at Watford. At least there I don’t have to climb into my bed, and there it’s my bed. My roommate might be stupid, but he doesn’t at least care about some baby more than me.

At least at Watford, I’d be with mum in spirit.

Happy Christmas,

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I’m almost done with year one. I have seven more, then I’m done at Watford.

Then… I don’t know what.

I suppose mummy would be proud of me for finishing my first year. She would kiss my hair and call me “Starshine” then give me a little bit of her last mint aero bar. I think we’d pack up and go back home with dad, then we’d have a big dinner for the three of us, then she’d read me to sleep.

I think she’d be happy to see me go through Watford. I think she’d ready me to be the headmaster following her.

I’d get to go through her books and actually learn them.

She’d teach me how to control my magick. Dad said I spell like her, and I hope I do. I think I know what I’d say to her if I could.

Mummy, I want to be just like you, and I’m sorry you can’t teach me that.

Maybe when I die—actually die—you can teach me. I’d like that.

Until then, I’m still learning in your school.

Love, your son,

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

**Year Two**

 

Dear Diary,

I think I’ve decided that I officially don’t like Snow. He greeted me today with a, “Hi Baz, you’re looking perky as always,” and I immediately decided that he has to die one day.

His Bunce friend has been reading even more over the summer. She’s going to give me a run for top of the class, but that’s fine. I know I’ll get it. Especially while following Snow around like that.

Snow is going to be the bane of my existence. I want to trip him, or something like that. He knows that if he complains enough, The Mage comes to his attention and makes everyone else feel like they can’t even breathe near him. He likes to remind us that  _ yes, I’m the Chosen One _ . Just not verbally. I think that makes it worse.

He still does everything like he did last year, too. He’s messy, and he eats messily too. And I don’t know why, but I feel weird when I look at him. I don’t like the feeling, so it probably means I hate him or something. It’s like my chest is punching itself, and then my stomach. I think that means I should punch him in the chest and stomach.

I don’t punch him often, though. I don’t think getting kicked out would be a good idea. Mummy would’ve been angry.

If she was here, she’d tell me that The Crucible gave him to me for a reason. Maybe the reason is it knows I can take a challenge.

We were meant to be enemies, so maybe that’s why we were put together. I’m supposed to get used to how his magick feels to be around because we’re going to fight one day, and I have to be able to deal with it. So that’s that.

Simon Snow and I are each other’s nemesis.

Sounds so evil. Maybe I’m supposed to be the bad guy… that’s how it works, right? The vampire’s the bad guy, usually. I bite someone, everyone screams, and that’s the end of me. That’s what I’d like to think. And on top of it, I think Snow’s the one who’s supposed to do it. It’s sometime after he finishes the Humdrum off that it all falls into place. We kill each other, nice and easy.

Hey diary, if I lose and don’t kill him, find someone to do it for me. Niall and Dev are both too stupid to be able to do it themselves.

Thanks,

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch

(P.S., people call me Baz. Should I use Baz as an ending?)

(P.S. x2., I don’t think I will. I don’t know if I like it)

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

This year is moving awfully slow. I write so often that I don’t know what to write about, even when I skip a day or few.

I still don’t like Snow. He’s awful. Aunt Fiona was right.

That’s all for today.

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

My chest keeps feeling weird when I look at Snow. I would go to a Mage doctor, if only it weren’t for that vampire part. I hope it isn’t some medical issue.

If I had the internet here, I would search up “weird chest feeling”. Then some Normal answer would pop up and tell me I’m dying, as if I weren’t already dead. I know you can’t help much either, though. You’re just a book. You don’t know much. I don’t know much, except for what I write. I wish I was smarter, then, so I could figure it out.

I tried to spell myself well, but it didn’t work, and I sure as Purgatory won’t let anybody else try to spell me well. Maybe this is typical; who knows what’s typical for me. Nobody told me how to be a vampire, I just have to drink blood. It’s weird, and I wish I knew what I was doing. I feel like a monster whenever I grab a rat. I feel gross.

I also feel gross when I look at Snow, just a different gross.

Gross.

I wish this would end. Until I figure it out (or something like that),

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Snow called me Pitchy. I told him to melt.

Latin is too easy, and I could practically sleep during Early Magic. It hurts being as good as I am.

The days are going so slowly, but our holiday is soon. I’m absolutely excited to be doing more of what I want to be doing: Avoiding Snow (and that weird feeling).

Until I want to write again, I guess,

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Aunt Fiona ditched us for her Normal boyfriend this Christmas. She sent me a new notebook, this one engraved with just “Basilton”. It’s a pretty deep blue, and the lettering has a fine paint over it in a lighter blue. Sort of looks like Snow’s eyes.

Not that I care to look at him that hard anyway.

Besides, I get to be away from him for days now without him causing some mess and just leaving to do something heroic. He fought a dragon last year. That was a mess, and I got a little angry. He doesn’t seem to care about other lives, but I guess I don’t have much to say about that. I take blood and lives from other creatures, but they’re not magickal, so it doesn’t count. I think.

I keep writing about that, I’m sorry. It just keeps coming back to mind. I don’t like it.

I guess I should be festive, but we barely have any of the festive things I see on telly. We don’t have Christmas crackers and laughter. We have quiet dinner time where occasionally politics are spoken of.

Dad hates The Mage equally (or maybe more) than Fiona does, and I can see why. He looks silly and acts like he’s some god. I’m starting to realize why I hate Snow so much. He’s like a tinier Mage, just more smiley. And he doesn’t have a ridiculous moustache (and I hope he never does have one; that would be too much to handle. I’d die laughing before killing him). I wonder if he likes being like this. I wouldn’t put it past him to have his sword out like the Mage’s, though. It’s like him.

I keep thinking about him. Weird. I don’t like it, but I have to sleep,

Goodnight, Diary. You’re nearly full now, so I’m going to use the one Fiona gave me once you’re full.

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Snow’s close with that Wellbelove. I don’t quite like her either now. She talks like she’s in an old black and white movie.

Maybe she’s going to be the girl we’re supposed to fight over like a proper vampire story. That’s when we fight to the death.

I don’t want to fight  _ over _ her. I can’t really see why I would. Weird.

Until I figure it out (or tomorrow),

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I’ve decided that girls are gross. I don’t like how they look.

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Classes end in two weeks today officially and I’m not sure I want to go home. If there was a way I could go up to my mum’s room, I’d sit in front of her fireplace again. I want her to sing me to sleep again.

I sort of remember what it felt like at this time of year all the way back then. I wish I could remember more of it; it would be much more satisfying to actually live that again.

Besides that, classes are going well. I’m doing quite well, as always, and that’s what matters.

It’s been a relatively mundane year. My chest keeps feeling weird, but I think it’ll change eventually. It goes away when I’m not near Snow, or when I don’t think about him, so I will have to try that more.

I might search it once I get home, but until then, I’m stuck here with just you and the boys. Boring.

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch

**Year Three**

 

Dear Diary,

The chest feelings back. It’s only been a day and I don’t know what to do about it. Google said it’s a  _ crush _ , so, of course, I have to crush him. That’s the only reasonable answer.

I hate him. I hate his little smile and the way he eats like a slob. He’s ridiculous. I want to see him laugh more, or pee himself so I can laugh at him. I guess that’s all I’ll get from this because I refuse to believe what the internet is telling me.

Besides  _ Snow _ , I suppose everything’s just lovely, as it comes. Classes are typical and I’m bored. The Mage is still his typical weird. It’s another year at Watford, I suppose. One day in and the rest to go. Two years down. Mom would’ve been proud.

Let’s go, year three,

Tyrannus Basilton ( BAZ ) Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I think I’ve figured how I’m going to get Snow to freak out. A Chimera in the Withering Wood. He pees himself, and hopefully,  _ hopefully _ it’ll get rid of that chest thing that is absolutely  _ not _ a crush. I will update more on the idea tomorrow.

This chest feeling is still between you and I, thankfully. Let’s get it away.

Tyrannus Basilton ( BAZ ) Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

It is  not a crush.

Tyrannus Basilton ( BAZ ) Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I’ve been sitting on the chimera idea for about a month now. Maybe after break… it’ll be funny. A new year, then I do it.

I guess it’s dangerous, but it’s absolutely worth it. It’s something Fiona would actually approve of, fucking with Snow. It’s a lovely idea.

I can hear him right now, leaving water all over the bathroom and  _ humming _ so loudly. Most nights I end up listening to him go off like this, but other nights I’m actually watching him go off. How many fires has he started this year? I kept track a week or two ago of how many times he's gone off this year, but I can’t remember exactly where I was at. I think I have a few to add to that, too.

It’s distracting to have him like this. Great.

I’ll count again later.

Tyrannus Basilton ( BAZ ) Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I don’t believe in Father Christmas, but I know what I want this year.

I want Snow to shut up, new violin strings because I snapped my E string again (I’m not even sure if I want a new string because I’m about to size up. I’m at a ¼, but it sits funny and my arms are getting longer. I need a ½, I think), and as every year, I want mum back.

Thanks,

Tyrannus Basilton ( BAZ ) Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I  do not like Snow. I don’t know why anyone would.

Tyrannus Basilton ( BAZ ) Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow’s the day where it’s going to go down. I’ll get him dragged out, and that’s where the chimera will attack. I suppose I have to be careful not to catch on fire, but besides that it’s a flawless plan. I’ll laugh my magic away.

I’ll update tomorrow, Snow’s almost out of the bathroom.

Tyrannus Basilton ( BAZ ) Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

It was not flawless. I hurt.

Will update when I can.

Tyrannus Basilton ( BAZ ) Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Here’s what happened,

It didn’t go right. It was supposed to attack  _ him _ , but that isn’t exactly what happened. It just… turned on me on a dime, then went after _ us _ . Snow, being the hero he is, managed to save us from it just in the nick of time before we were both dinner.

Why didn’t he leave me? I was the one who dragged him out, but there he was, dragging me along too.

I still hate him.

I hate this.

He hasn’t looked at me since we got out. He dragged himself out and there was Bunce, losing her mind, but no, don’t mind me. I would’ve bled out if I didn’t hunt enough last night. Thankfully I got myself all wrapped up and tucked away in our bathroom for an hour as he fussed outside.

We weren’t supposed to  _ almost die _ , I was just trying to tease him, but that’s what Snow shouted. That I tried to kill him.

I wouldn’t try to kill him. Not yet, at least.

Tyrannus Basilton ( BAZ ) Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Why did he save me?

Tyrannus Basilton ( BAZ ) Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

It didn’t resolve the chest feeling, but it twists more now that he won’t even go near me. He doesn’t sleep with his back to me anymore, though. I heard him say I’m plotting.

I am. I’m plotting to rid the world of him eventually, but apparently I can’t do that right. Not right now.

Curse the bloody Chimera.

Tyrannus Basilton ( BAZ ) Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Snow called me Grimm-Bitch today when I had to work with him in class. He flinched when I raised my wand. Maybe he has a reason to be afraid of me.

I told him I’d give him a Viking funeral if he didn’t fuck off.

I think I’m afraid of myself.

Tyrannus Basilton ( BAZ ) Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

He’s so stupid. He was stupid to save me.

Tyrannus Basilton ( BAZ ) Grimm-Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I’m all packed and ready to go, and even after all that’s happened, I’ve noticed some things about Snow.

  1. He still sits near the pitch during my games. He watches from some tree, usually looking like he’s studying, and I can’t put my finger on why he does it. He doesn’t really play, and when he does he’s awful. Merlin, he can’t play for shit. So why is he there?
  2. His scars healed well. He still suggests that I tried to kill him, and I just look at him when he says so. I don’t want to say I wanted to mess with him, it makes me sound weak, and so I just… look at him? I guess? I don’t know why.
  3. Sometimes _he_ looks at me for a while. Makes me chest all weird.
  4. He’s been spending more time with that Wellbelove too. It’s the three of them; she’s not really bright, and her magic is comparatively weak. I wonder what it’s like to feel like the limp dog next to the powerhouse of the magick world.
  5. We’re truly sworn enemies now. It feels right, but I don’t know why it also feels wrong. Maybe I just don’t feel ready to kill him. I don’t even like killing to feed, and those are small creatures.
  6. I don’t think I like him.



 

Tyrannus Basilton ( BAZ ) Grimm-Pitch

**Year Four**

 

Dear Diary,

Fuck.

Sincerely,

Basilton Pitch (Nobody really calls me Tyrannus, so I guess I shouldn’t have to anymore, and I don’t care about the Grimm side. I’m a Pitch, like my mum.)

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

It’s only been a week, and I want to rip my own head off.

I think I do like him. He says I intentionally shoved him down the stairs (okay maybe I did it… can’t prove anything). I’ll feed him to the merwolves if I get a chance. I’m tired of seeing his tattered face and hair glittering like a coin.

Maybe he was destined to be flipped into moat, then.

I want to rub his little face into the ground as I kick him. It’s the only way to deal with him, at this point. We’ve been at each other’s throats since day one and I’m going to  _ have _ to get the one up on him.

If it weren’t for the Anathema, I would’ve had this all over sometime soon.

This year is going to be horrid. The next few years are going to be horrid.

Snow seemed to have a little growth spurt over the summer, and his edges sharpened a bit. He looks like some fairy tale hero coming to life. Save me, oh Snow, from myself. Or something of the like.

With all due respect to the hell you see, Diary, I’ll bid you a goodnight from my thoughts.

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Merlin and Morgana, it’s going to be a slow year. It’s only October and I want to rip my hair out piece for piece.

I wonder if I start writing dark poetry you’ll come to life and slap some sense into me. (I’ll try to put magic into it)

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary

In dark nights with light sheets

He turned bright (something cleats?)

Hang on this is terrible.

 

Boy of gold and hair of copper

I stare at him in wonder

If he’ll ever see me the way I see him

Or if he’ll just give me my end

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I apologize for the poetry. I now look back at my 12 pages of it and there’s no excuse. It’s either terrible, or just a list of things I’d kill Snow with.

I’ll work on it elsewhere instead of my nightly entries. I’m depressing.

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Snow’s a pain still. No other updates. Boring day. It smells like late autumn, and the game went well tonight.

Snow still watches from the trees.

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

My chest pulling has been getting harder. I hate it.

Snow nearly choked on some ham tonight and I imagined myself going to help him. Crowley, what’s happening to me?

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Snow looks at that Wellbelove weird. I don’t like it.

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I quite hate myself

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I think I’m gay, thoughts?

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I’m gay.

Basilton Pitch,

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Men? Men.

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I’m going to tell Fiona I’m gay tomorrow.

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

She said she’s known since I was 9 and would go around singing ABBA.

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I don’t think Snow is gay. I think he likes Agatha.

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

But what if Snow  _ is _ gay?

Basilton Pitch

-

Dear Diary,

I hummed some ABBA, and Snow hummed some back. Maybe there’s hope for him after all.

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I have officially decided that the gross feeling I get when I see Snow is nothing. He’s just that terrible and I do not like him one bit.

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Do you recall what I said a while back? About not liking Snow? I think I might have miscalculated something.

Basilton Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Oh Merlin and Morgana. I knew it. I’ve known it. I like him. I hate that I like him, but I loathe to hate him. I’ve like him for years and it’s never going to stop. I’ll try to get rid of it this summer. I have to.

I hate this.

Basilton Pitch

**Year Five**

 

Dear Diary,

When I opened the door, there he was. My prayers weren’t answered; he didn’t disappear. He just lifted his head and said (probably sarcastically) “Lovely to see you again, Baz.” I want to swipe that stupid, pathetic smirk off his face. Or I want him to wipe mine as I taunted back with a, “You too, Snow. Lost weight or IQ points?”

Crowley, he keeps getting more handsome. His lips curl into a smile and I’m a puddle at his feet. He could launch me away and I’d thank him.

I nearly lose myself at the sight of him now, and I know why.

I’m in love with him.

Fairy tale, alright. Cartoon heart eyes and butterfly stomachs and all; it’s disgusting. I’m disgusting.

At this point, I don’t want to fight him; I want him to end me in some dramatic half-arsed battle where he slays me, but I have just enough time to pull him to me and tell him that I love him more than the stars in the sky, then I die a languished death.

I hope he buries me with some lovely flowers.

It’s all I can dream about now; kissing Snow, blood spurts (I’m not even sure if it’s because of the vampire thing, anymore), and then Snow ending this all. It’ll be beautifully poetic; more beautiful than I deserve.

Baz (Simon calls me that; I think I’ll stick with just Baz) Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I feel disgusting. I took two showers today, but I don’t know if I’ll ever feel well.

Snow’s dating that Wellbelove. Perfect.

Now, of course I never expected for him to care for me (he still brings up that I tried to kill him, which isn’t exactly correct, but that isn’t the point), but it still makes me feel like I’m drowning and Snow’s the one who tied the bricks to my ankles.  It’s like my nightmares; I’m sinking fast, and he’s laughing with one of those  _ lovely _ arms around Wellbelove’s  _ thin, frail, feminine waist _ and there I am, dying.

And I didn’t even get to kiss him.

I wonder if that’s how he’ll do it; I don’t even know if I can drown. I never tried… suppose I could try, but I don’t want Snow to have the gratification of finding me dead, if I do die, before him.

It’s kind of hot though. There I am, naked, and there he is, looking at my dead corpse.

I mean that’s it, but he’s still gets a full glance of me.

(I’m starting to doubt this was even about me drowning. I think I just want Snow to see me naked).

I don’t think I can write much more about this; my heart’s pounding out of my chest and I waited until Simon went to bed to write this entry, so I’m staring right at him and all I can think of is him stabbing a sword through me after he knows.

I sort of want him to know.

I need him to know, at some point. Before I’m gone.

I suppose it can wait until the last minute, then.

Until then,

Baz Pitch.

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I wonder how strong Snow is.

I never see him  _ really _ work out, except swing that sword around, but he’s the Chosen One, so there has to be some sort of muscle compensation for that, right? I see them sometimes, when he’s shirtless, but I guess we’re still kind of young.

He’s still cute, though. His nose sticks up a little at the end, and his moles and freckles all over. He looks like somebody took a paintbrush and ran their thumb along the top, splattering onto him.

I know you can’t see, Diary, but I wish you could. He’s what I’d imagine Apollo would look like if Apollo was useless. A godlike appearance on some kid who can’t even spell right.

And he makes me weak. Maybe I’m useless.

He makes me so weak that I sit here, scribbling away my thoughts because I have nobody else to say them to. I’ve already mentally made sure that I have nobody.

Dad doesn’t know I’m queer yet. I think I’m going to tell him one day, but not yet. I don’t think he’ll kick me out; it’ll be the talk of the Old Families.  _ Oh, did you hear? Malcolm Grimm tossed out the last Pitch in the direct bloodline because he’s a poof. _ It’ll out him for having a gay son, which he’d rather not have known, so I guess I’m safe. Unless he knows I’m in love with Snow. Then I might be dead.

Fiona’s the “Cool Aunt”. She buys me Adam Lambert CDs (I still, after all these years, prefer ABBA) and tells me that I’m a catch for any boy. I would hope she means it, but I know when she says “any boy” she’d never even imagine that the boy I want is our sworn enemy. She’d personally bury me alive if she knew I’m fawning after  _ Snow _ .

Niall and Dev are both reliable, but they don’t quite know I’m queer yet. Sure, I threaten to flirt with them, and they might’ve caught on, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to stand up and say “Alright boys, I like cock” quite yet. And even then, they won’t like that it’s Snow. Even if they do accept it, if I move on, they’ll never let me live it down.  _ Oi, I’m in love with the Chosen One! Let him take me away on his magical steed as we ride into the sunset! _

I mock myself enough for the two of them.

Baz Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

It’s absolute torment that all I have is you. Granted, it’s quite funny to look back on what I said when I was 12 because my poor soul had a little crush, but it isn’t cute anymore.

It’s utter hell and I want out.

I want Snow to out me.

Baz Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Snow followed me out when I tried to go hunting. He’s setting me a bit on edge; I’m sure he’s figured it out, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing, or the satisfaction of getting me kicked out of Watford.

For now, I’ll let him play cat and mouse. What’s the harm in liking him thinking about me?

Baz Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I’m a scary vampire. Boo.

I hope Snow’s happy now (even though he’ll never see this).

Baz Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Winter break is quickly approaching, and it’s setting me on edge. While I wish for it sooner, I also dread being home.

That, and the knowledge that Snow spends his Holiday with Wellbelove, in her perfect little life. He even mocked me for it today; mentioning the Christmas party before throwing me a glare and saying, “Don’t you have an evil lair to get to for break?”

I wish I could choke him out.

Or, perhaps, to have him choke me.

In gay exhaustion,

Baz Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I don’t know what I’m to do about this recorder.

I’ve been sat staring at it for the past half an hour now, and each time I try to look closer, my stomach gets queasy and I want to run off.

Oh, and happy Christmas, I suppose. Fiona made it this year, which has put me into this exact predicament. See, she and my father spent last night going back and forth about the bullshit the Mage has been pulling us through. So, this morning, I’d unwrapped my gifts from her (or rather, pulled off the tissue paper from the gift bag) and found three things: A posh styling gel, a signed picture of David Beckham, and this stupid fucking recorder. This, of course, doesn’t include the gift of a bottle of vodka and a flask she’d snuck me earlier today, telling me that it’s best to drink on campus after dark.

After a bit of confusion of the voice recorder, which included me nearly setting it off onto myself, she’d dragged me aside and explained how she’d enchanted it.

So now here I am. A half-arsed plan, a cursed tape recorder, and my horny guilt that makes it hard for me to breathe, even when Simon’s so far away.

I don’t really know if I have the nerve to do it. Not yet, at least. I’m going to have to work my way there. After all, this’ll probably take Snow away once and for all. Of course, with my luck, it’ll backfire and end me instead.

Maybe that’s just what I want.

Baz Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

On the bright side of this hell away from the hell of  _ constant _ Snow is the fact that I can finally jack off without waiting for Snow to go to breakfast first. Happy  _ fucking _ Christmas to me.

Baz Pitch

-

Dear Diary,

First day back and I’m nearly sure that Snow has a hickey on his neck.

If you’ll need me, I’ll be floating face down in the moat.

Baz Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Snow found me in the Catacombs last night.

Sorry for not writing, by the way, but I was quite a bit pissed, and I think I managed to pass out before Snow did.

I owe an explanation, I suppose.

He didn’t find me draining rats, although I think he saw a drained one or two a room away. At least he didn’t see the blood on my shirt and face; it was washed out by the vodka. I’d missed my mouth a few times too many, and I think he’d missed the point if my drunk ramblings.

With a sword pointed at me and a threatening grumble, I tried to wave Snow away by telling him about the plague deaths that I’m surrounding myself with, if that’s what he wanted to find so  _ desperately _ . 

You know, I should have done it then. I should've pulled the recorder on him.

I’ve kept that damned thing on me since Christmas, sitting against me and reminding me every day what sort of job I’ve set out to. It clings to me as I hunt; it reminds me I’m a monster inside and out.

I should’ve done it. I should’ve just let it end last night, but I didn’t. The look of pity on Snow’s pathetic face, and the way his sword had shown its sheen in the firelight sent my mind spiraling. I’d wished he’d stabbed me. He’d missed his opportunity.

I wish he’d wiped the dribbling, clear alcohol off my chin. If he would’ve just sat there, wiped me clean before swiping me dead, I would’ve accepted my end.

After all, that’s how I want it to end. I want it to be gorgeously morbid and neverendingly depressing. I want Simon Snow to look me in the eyes and I gasp for my last breaths, knowing how much I love him. 

If only he felt the same way.

Baz Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I’ve set the date.

It’s pitifully secured onto the date before our spring break, a glaringly obvious reminder of my feelings towards him.

Snow gets to disappear the day before break, then I rush off to never see him again upon my return.

I’m pathetic. I’m a weak soul, wanting this done, wanting my feelings gone. I crave the release of something; my frustrations melting away with the rough gravel of his voice. It’ll trickle down into the water, satisfying those disgusting merwolves’ hunger.

Maybe it’ll satisfy my cravings for an ending.

It’s only two weeks away, so I wait. And I wait and wait.

And hopefully, it’ll soothe me.

Baz Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Damn Philippa. Damn Simon Snow.

Damn the World of Mages.

Damn myself.

I’m going to sleep forever.

Baz Pitch

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow’s the last day of the year, and Snow hasn’t even looked at me properly since the incident.

Maybe I deserve a swift death. Maybe I deserve the ending I long for, but only sooner.

If I’m lucky, this war will spark this summer, and Snow will show up just to end me right on my father’s front lawn.

If I’m lucky, I’ll never have to see Simon Snow step out of our bathroom with a shaved head and dark bags under his eyes again.

If I’m lucky, I’ll be dead.

Baz Pitch

**Year Six**

 

Dear Diary,

This is hell.

This room is hell. This proximity is hell.

I feel his magick; the heat of it thumping through his veins and filling into the surrounding space. The scent of his powers, the spit in his voice as he bitterly barks back a welcome. Well, barely a welcome. It’s more of an angry spit in my direction, making a borderline spiteful comment about our summer.  _ My summer _ . As in, particularly if I enjoyed my “posh, spineless cushion of a break.”

I didn’t manage to say anything back. I was too scared.

Imagine that: Me, scared.

It wasn’t quite the fear of him, but rather the fear of myself. Of the words I’ve hidden so far down that it’s all encompassing, overwhelmingly present in my mind when I see him again.

I’d spent the summer engaged in the fantasy of him not loathing me. It’s intoxicating; I can’t help but daydream nowadays. It’s all I’ll ever get, really. A sad, hormone fueled dream about some fucked up alternate dimension where we aren’t at each other’s throats at all times.

I don’t know how much more dreaming I can do, besides lustful gazing.

I wish I had more to do.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Snow thinks The Mage is ignoring him. Should I say serves him right, or is that absolutely ghastly?

Scratch that, I love ghastly.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Now that exactly 30 days have gone by, I’ve decided to make a list of certain events. These events happen to be equally two things: The most idiotic things Snow has done this year thus far, and the reasons I’m absolutely enamored with him.

  1. He buttered a steak even more than it was before. When I caught his eye, he challenged me by slabbing even more butter onto it.
  2. Snow tripped over some else’s shoelace, but the person was across the room. He tripped because he was looking at the untied shoelace, shouted “Your laces are untied--” then tripped and fell on his face.
  3. He asked me how many countries there are in Russia.
  4. When I said, “Dear Crowley, Snow, we’re going to have to euthanize you”, he replied with, “You’re going to have to kill me first.”
  5. I saw him cram three (I counted them, three) scones into his mouth by pressing them together with a textbook before shoving them into his mouth.
  6. When asked what a good levitation spell is, he suggested _I Believe I Can Fly_.
  7. He sneezed the other night, looked around in confusion, then said “Bless you”.
  8. When I said “Mon dieu”, he thought I said fondue and said “Where?”
  9. I called myself a twink, and he squinted at me for a minute before asking where I was hiding them. He doesn’t know what a twink is. He thinks I referred to myself as an non-perishable snack cake.
  10. He sits at my football games, but I haven’t seen him once at Wellbelove’s games (This one’s much less idiotic, much more curious).



Will add to the list as the year goes on.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

  1. I told him pixies can grant wishes if you pull on their hair. Trixie nearly slapped him across the courtyard.



Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

This year is so painfully slow, and not really fun at all. I’ve just been studying, and Snow’s been avoiding me more than ever. Which, in hindsight, is the best for both of us. Especially since he’s put on some more muscle.

I feel like a tit when I actually say it, but Snow’s a bit of a sex god. 

I know it sounds a bit mental, but he really is. He’s a hunky bloke; broad shoulders and solid legs, and he’s got a ridiculously sculpted face. And, overall, I’m so painfully,  _ unavoidably _ gay.

Merlin, just a look of him is uncalled for. He might be awful at combing his hair, but he’s got a sunbeam smile and the softest looking eyes you’ve ever seen. His hands are rough, and he’s filling out like a wet dream, but he's still the same snow. He’s some scared kid who I didn’t want to shake hands with.

It’s unfair. I wish I didn’t  _ have _ to see him everyday, but the moment I catch his eye on the regular, I send my most intimidating glare and try to move on.

This year can’t end soon enough.

Neither can next year, or the year after that.

The sooner I can stop seeing Simon Snow everyday, the better.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I take back what I said about not seeing Snow; I’d rather not be at home.

The twins are borderline unbearable, and I wish I’d never agreed to  _ not _ going to Fiona’s.

Instead, decided to spend most of my Christmas sat at a stuffy, lonely dinner table as nobody speaks and everyone else eats.

Somehow, dinner's less boring than my empty room. Here, I get to use my laptop (I spit on the ground the Mage walks on; I wish I didn’t have to sneak it around when I’m at Watford) and just fuck around online.

And by fuck around, I mean have basically nothing to do but sit sadly and write shit poetry while watching Netflix.

I think I’ve gotten a bit better at it. Poetry, that is. Someday, I won’t be absolutely terrible. I think.

I wish Snow was here to pester, though; somehow, it’s more fun to watch him try to swing at me in a classroom than to sit and pout around because he isn’t here to tease.

I’ll see him soon enough, though.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Eyes full and lies empty

I drop myself into a grave.

Cold, watery and open,

I embrace it as a friend.

Baz

-   
Dear Diary,

The moment I looked at Snow this afternoon, he stared up at me and said “bitch”. So that’s how my first day back is going.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I wonder, if I kick him hard enough, Snow will fly into that alternate dimension where he actually likes me.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

  1. “Hey Baz, can vampires swim, or is it like a really weird mirror and they can’t really get in?”



Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

For the second time this year, The Mage said a word to Simon. So, of course, he’s been all chipper today.

And by chipper, I mean a bigger dick than usual. He looked at me across the classroom, and when I sneered, he stuck out his tongue and made the jack off sign to me before turning back around.

Oh, if he only knew.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I’m starting to think Wellbelove isn’t quite head over heels for Snow’s overactive heroism. After all, most girlfriends would leap into their partner’s arms the moment they return from fighting a rampant swarm of bogles. Instead, she just dusted off his shirt and gave him the most pathetic excuse for a smile.

On the same hand, she seems to have different idea for me..

And by this, I mean I think I saw her wink at me today.

Maybe I’m going mad (which is absolutely possible), but perhaps it was real. It was after dinner, as I was washing up, and she looked up as I took her plate and she bloody winked at me. I couldn’t quite believe it.

I still can’t quite believe it.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Fact check: not mental. She winked. She did it again, this time when I helped her after she dropped her books while Snow glared from across the room. Then, in what I assume was her most sensual whisper, she thanked me while her hand brushed my arm.

I wanted to gag.

I think Snow’s going to ask me to have an old fashioned duel for his girl.

I don’t want her, Snow. You’re so fucking oblivious.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Happy end of the fucking year. I did my yearly spit into the moat, and packed off nice and well. Snow’s all shaved (eck), and finally I can say six years down, two to go.

Baz

**Year Seven**

 

Dear Diary,

I don’t want to be here I don’t want to be here I don’t want to be here I don’t want to be here I don’t want to be here I don’t want to be here I don’t want to be here I don’t want to be here I don’t want to be here I don’t want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here.

I already saw Snow give a quick kiss to Wellbelove, and my entire appetite for the next eight months went out the window.

I’m living in hell and Snow’s got the fucking scythe in his hands.

Let’s go, year fucking seven.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I miss the days where my heart didn’t ache when I look at Snow.

Maybe those days didn’t actually exist, and I’m keeping myself in a suspended disbelief over the previous normalcy. Perhaps, I just crave a situation where I never longed for him, or I just wish I could just move on.

It’d be  _ great _ to move on. It’d be absolutely lovely if I could just kiss another bloke and I could be happy with my life. Do you know how easily I could get someone else if I tried? I’m not absolutely hideous, I’m just pathetically in love with someone else.

It wouldn’t last, if I tried to move on;  _ I’d _ never last. I doubt I’d last more than a one night stand; smoke a cig on the balcony and gaze longingly at the sky, tracing the constellations that seem like they’re printed back onto Snow’s skin.

I’d find replacements of him, scattered among London wearing chavy clothes and speaking in a similar, thuggish tongue that he returns with after every summer. I worry that I’d have a “type”. Gold skin, blue eyes. Moles. Curls. I wonder if they’ll have the same spark of anger in them; snaps of defense and a stumbling voice that can only manage retaliations of “fuck you.”

I’m nearly sure I could copy what he looks like, and find a similarity to who he is, but I’ll never find him again. I suppose that’s my downfall is. The villain’s curse.

The bullshit to this situation. The fact that I'm in love with Simon Snow and no one else.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Wellbelove’s been distinctly distant with Snow this year.

It seems like last year wasn’t a fluke; she’s been showing acute interest in me, and I’m starting to suspect that’s not a matter that’s due to change. I’m not interested--not in the slightest. She’s too, well, too much of a girl for me to ever really care.

I wonder if my father would set us together anyway. Say it keeps the power, say it joins the bridges between the families. I get to see Snow cry, and I get to see myself keep the reins on the Pitch name.

Perhaps, it won’t be terrible.

I suppose it’s something I’ll have to find out.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Disregard previous entry. She brushed my arm and I nearly gagged.

I want nothing to do with women.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Would it be the end of me to come out to father this holiday? Just briefly stand at the dinner table, once we’re all done, and announce it to the room.

_ “Father, Daphne, I have an announcement. I’m into blokes. That’s all. Please send the disappointment letters through the slot under my bedroom door so I can promptly dispose of them into my fireplace. I may even light a cigarette with their charing remains, since father hates that so much.” _

It’ll be lovely to give him a heart attack. The best Christmas present I could hope for; the coldness of the family to seep into our  _ cheerful _ festivities.

It’s going to be a bloody happy holi(g)ay.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

He just rolled his eyes, called me dramatic, and said he’ll still try to fix me a wife.

Somewhat of a lesser reaction than I’d expected, but that’s still off my chest.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Snow’s in a cast. It’s quite funny watching him try to hobble up the stairs with his leg all wrapped up. I get a kick out of taking the pencil off his desk and dropping it onto the floor without breaking eye contact. He doesn’t quite think it’s as humorous.

I think the best overall part of this was Wellbelove’s apathy to the situation. There’s her boyfriend, injured from a backfired wand, and she just sort of stared at him and said “Pity”.

An iconic scene to watch play out. 5/5 stars. Bravo.

At least now I can keep a closer eye on Snow; he seems to think I’m plotting to fuck up his other leg, while I’m just plotting my own downfall.

How beautifully romantic.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Agatha slipped me a note today, telling me to meet her in the Wavering Wood this Friday, right as term is ending.

I think I’ll “slip up” and mention it to Snow offhandedly, just to rile him up. Whatever’s planned on Wellbelove’s part is unrelated; I’ll put up with letting her down bluntly, just to see Snow’s crumbling as I do it.

It’ll be lovely. Maybe I’ll cheer after.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Did not go as planned.

Snow disappeared, then later reappeared cloaked in his own blood and the stale stench of The Humdrum.

Then, before I knew it, we were both gone. Not a word, not a whisper to each other.

Next September is going to be the underworld brought up to life.

Baz

 

**Year Eight**

 

Dear Diary,

I found you, tucked among my school trunks, waiting for term to begin without me. It’s quite unfair to write in the midst of the beginning of the semester while I lay in my bed at home, too weak to rise longer than an hour. My leg’s still in a disarray, and I still feel the pain of hunger even after I eat (I can barely keep much down as it is).

I’ve paged through my old copies over these past few days; the filled pages that taunt my every fleeting thought inside that damned coffin. My cares for Snow, and my wishes for him to find me. It’s ridiculous. I knew it was, and I’m still aware that is it, but this is my final year to see him and I’m not even there.

Beautifully depressing, or hauntingly real? I can’t decide anymore.

My body aches; my heart hurts. My lungs still feel compressed, and my head still spins.

I can’t sleep in darkness. It feels too close, and I still smell myself withering away.

Some nights I lie awake, sleepless and mulling over the possibility that I’m actually dead, and this is my afterlife punishment. I’d gotten my last laugh at Snow, no kiss, and now I spend eternity in a too big posh bed with children running amuck and a doting step-mother stopping in every few hours to drop off a snack.

If this keeps up for too much longer, I’m going to assume that Hell is actually the Grimm-Pitch manor.

If I can’t go back, I’m going to send myself to hell in my own hand carved boat of my life’s worth of mistakes.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

Father says I can return to Watford next week.

The leaves have been changing, and I doubt I can go back to the football team, but there is one upside to this: Seeing Snow (somewhat) peacefully for the last time.

I’m anticipating anger; a punch on the lawn and a spit in the face. He’ll tell me off for last year, and act as though I haven’t been missing for months. It isn’t like he noticed, or anything. He avoids me on good days, so there’s nothing in particular to miss.

There’s only room for me to miss him.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

That was… something.

I’m too tired to write my thoughts.

I should go up to the Mage’s office. I will, soon. Eventually.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

The dragon, my mum. His power surges; I never knew it felt like combustion. An explosion in my arm, sparks at my fingertips.

I have so much to ask, so much to gather.

I don’t think I have much time to write in here anymore.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

I’ve left you untouched for too long; I know that.

Break began this morning, and it feels odd to leave Snow alone on the grounds with the knowledge that he’s fending for himself.

It was a bit selfish on me, to get him to come with me just so I don’t get to miss a minute of him this year. It sounded fair; it sounded  _ good _ . I offered him kindness, and then this. Fuck the truce. Fuck him. Fuck everything.

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Simon,

Fuck me?

Baz

 

*

 

Dear Diary,

In regards to the previously written entry, may I make a brief remark of last night?

I think it may very well be a possibility now (the, you know,  _ fuck me _ statement). I don’t know what sort of Christmas miracle this is, but his hands burn my skin, and lips singe my heart. And I love him. And I’m going to tell him, because he made my lips sore and burnt a cross into my palm.

One day, I think I’ll finally get to tell him. And now I know it won’t end in blood. It might just end in a ring.

Baz


End file.
